A terrible thing has happened, but that does not mean it was an act of terrorism. There is a difference.

I write this blog in English, but not in Christian. There is a difference.

As we often see in moments of horror, some beauty has arisen, coming to the surface like so much thick cream, full of goodness, putting itself at the very top, perhaps shielding the parts below.

Humans are coming together to support other humans. To look after each other. To make sure everyone is okay. Or as okay as they can be, in times of anguish.

We can choose what we focus on. What we listen to. What we then talk about. What we make events be about. We can make them be about strength and compassion, or blame and fear.

We can make a difference.

It is of our own choosing.

…From The Ashers

There’s a funny old buzz going on isn’t there? A kind of frenetic energy, that can put you on edge and make you feel like you are perched right up on the brink of something, and you are gripping on with the knuckles of your toes, hoping against hope that you don’t slip. So you breathe shallow gasps, hoping you don’t flare your nostrils too much, upsetting the fragile balance you’ve created, and causing you to plummet to… something.

Except the dreaded abyss is something lovely and enjoyable and very safe.

And the security that you are so afraid of letting go of is just this day, mixed with the fear that you might have forgotten something.

I forgot two things yesterday.

They both involved spending time with other people. They were both things that I had said that I would only “pop in” to later on, as I had a house full of kids and Nath was working, but still. I actually forgot. Long after the children were all scooped up by their parents and Nath was home and hosed, we settled down to a late afternoon cuppa and I remembered the things I had forgotten.

Of course I will apologise and I’m sure they didn’t even miss me, but still. I’m sad to have missed out, and I’m annoyed that I didn’t even check the calendar to see where I was supposed to be.

So the feeling of “what else have I forgotten?” just won’t leave me today. Like Santa, I have been making a list and checking it (more than) twice, hoping that I will remember to do ALL OF THE THINGS. Of which there aren’t many- it is for this very reason that I get everything sorted early- my memory just can’t be relied upon when it comes to school holidays. It seems that with the shedding of the routine and the uniforms, comes a shedding of my short term memory, and all I can deal with is the stuff right in front of me.

So if you are feeling a bit like me, take heart, and see all of the things I have forgotten this last week: a 40th birthday, a coffee with a friend, a present for one of our kids, an accommodation booking in a very busy place over Xmas, Santa photos, three things from the food shopping list, another present from a shop on order, a visit to Optus to change for OS, a patient call, turning the dishwasher on overnight (stinky), that Howard’s Storage World isn’t even at the shopping centre any more (I went there anyway and come home with, er, other stuff), to book the kids into care for one day, a Christmas party and to change my blood donation appointment (fixed that)… I’m sure there’s more, but, um, I’ve forgotten them so far.

So today I’m going to: breathe deeply, forgive myself, and jump off that ledge instead of gripping on so tightly.

Who knows? I might fly.

…From The Ashers

This is a practice blog, to see if I can actually do it, then stand to do it from my ipad.

I MAY have mentioned that we are GOING TO AMERICA for Christmas, and I know you’ll all be gagging for my hilarious updates on the state of the nation, so I have to decide: to Macbook, or not to Macbook?

Will this tiny screen and keyboard made for hamsters (See? I’m already talking like a Seppo) drive me slowly insane? Or will the superior charge-holding abilities, the lighter weight, and the fact that it doesn’t toast my (now practically obsolete) ovaries to cinders when I have it on my knees, finally win out?

All shall be revealed when I try to import a picture presently, and then view the preview, check for dreaded typos etc….

It’s taxing stuff, this blogging caper.

PS I know you don’t give a rat’s, but I was typing this anyway, so I thought I might as well publish. Sharing is caring, right?

PPS I did it!! And I didn’t even have to ask the Evil Geniuses once!!!  My computery skills know no bounds. Nor does my use of extraneous exclamation points!

!!!!

!!

…From The Ashers

Here are the hits for you… A litle late I know, the 5am club went on strike today. I guess it was all of the WEEK adding up.. It’s been a bit of a rollercoaster.

1.  BLOOD DONORS BLOOD DONORS.

The kid got her top up of the good stuff this week- a little earlier than anticipated, but still in great timing for the festive season. So, I’d like to send out a big thank you and virtual cuddle to all of the wonderful blood donors who give up their precious red stuff for our kid, and kids just like her. Without you we wouldn’t have much of a life, to be honest, and we definitely wouldn’t be able to GO TO THE USA for our Festivus celebrations. THANKYOU ONE AND ALL.

2.  All of my wonderful patients, who, without even a hint of grumbling annoyance, rescheduled their appointments so that we could go ahead with point 1 above. I am so lucky to have such a gorgeous group of lovely, understanding people to work with. Blessed I tells ya!

3.  You lot.

This week I have had such lovely feedback about the blog. I have had people complimenting my writing, telling me they like coming here to visit, sharing with me the things that make them laugh and cry as they sponge up my tales of whinging and general carry on. We might be perched here in a tiny little corner of the internet, but to all of you who come on over and read From The Ashers, thank you. Thanks for reading, commenting, sharing and just generally being part of this community. I love that you bother to stop by.

4.  This book.

I finally have a copy in my hot little hands, and almost want to cry just looking at the cover. It was written by the clever, humble, patient and incredibly persistent Allison Paterson. I’ve only read a tiny bit so far, but I can already tell it’s going to be a cracker. I’m so proud of her for forging ahead with this massive project, creating this important work and giving heart to these pieces of Australian History.

5.  All of the small things.

The delicious crumble of home-made shortbread. The sound of rain on our tin roof at night. The snuffling movements of our children sleeping. The gentle winking of Christmas lights. The joyful noise of children splashing in the pool. The salty fragrance of warm, wet air. The crackling anticipation of the record player. The pungent smell of the first coffee of the day in my hideous Christmas Mug. The delivery of gifts from far away. Colourful paper. Curling ribbon. People who say thank you and mean it. Fresh new haircuts. Juicy Summer fruits. Laughing with friends. Silly Christmas movies. Getting dinner cooked for me. Music. New ideas. Almost sunburnt skin. The calming lull of cricket on the telly. Home-brewed ginger beer. Long days. The whisper of ceiling fans that stir the hairs on my arms. Life.

Small things. But they add up okay. They make a big life.

So what are your hits people? Any big wins this week? (Don’t be shy- we are a community, remember.)

…From The Ashers

The doors sense your presence as you approach, and like a bride, the moment  you step over that threshold, life becomes something different.

The air is cooler than it needs to be, so despite the sticky, liquid heat of the Queensland Summer, you have to remember to wear long pants and covered shoes, or you will be shivering by the end of the long, long day. The lighting is vivid, casting shadows on your face, highlighting the bags of concern that have grown, dark and haggard, under your eyes these last few days as you waited for this moment with fearful anticipation. Equal parts relief and dread.

At the check in they call your kid by name, but they place a band around her foot, tagging her for the duration, and although they still refer to her by the name you chose for her, they really know her as UR 54021. Those five digits storing all that they need to know. Her name is just a concession to convention.

As you walk the long corridor to your glaring, sterile habitation for the day, all sense of who you were out in that other world sloughs off you, and you become part of the machinery of intervention. The more completely you can exfoliate the remnants of your concerns and your individuality, the better you will fare on this day of immersion. Cleansing yourself of your self makes for a smooth transition into a day where all decisions will be made for you.

The people in white are also tagged and numbered, and they will direct your progression. Come here, move there, put your arm here, wait there, eat this, hold still, hold still hold still HOLD HER STILL, whilst they prick and insert this steel along the lines of her veins, filling her up with the liquid of life that you know she needs, and yet the last remnant of you that still recalls the outside you, resists and recoils from.

The day is long and long, and long after you have forgotten your own name, or the feel of the fresh brush of sunlight on your skin, you are released out into the bigness of the twilight sky and you can fill your alveoli with air that is moistened from sugarcane and life.

You breathe that warmed air in gulping mouthfuls, filling your cheeks like the guppy at the bottom of the fluorescent fish tank you have left behind. Fare you well little fish, and all of you big fish, stuck in your tank of surreal activity.

‘Til next time.

And you silently cross your fingers, hoping with futile desire that there won’t be a next time.

But you know better.

…and so does she

My friend had breast cancer.

When you have cancer, and somehow the body that grew those rogue cells is able to overcome them, people say that you are lucky. That always makes me cringe. I know they are talking about the fact that you had the Big C and are still here to tell the tale, but from what I’ve seen, it doesn’t look very lucky.

Have you ever looked at cancer cells under the microscope? Even if you know nothing about histology, when you see them, you know something has gone terribly wrong. Under the microscope, there is an organisation and structure to normal cells, and in fact, the cells of each organ have distinctive features. So you can tell the difference between a thyroid cell and a liver cell, a heart and a lung. Cancer is not something from the outside, it is those self-same cells, but they are in a death rush to end it all. They are multiplying and dividing and multiplying again, in some frenzied tornado of reproduction, so that they become some mutated, ugly cousin of the original cells, hideously echoing the family traits.

Their evolution is like Gremlins, but they have the malevolent fury of something from the other side of the Pet Semetary.

I despise them.

My friend had breast cancer.

It ravaged and contorted and shrank her body, killing her from the inside out, just as mine swelled and glowed and created a new life.

She used to talk to my fecund, streched skin, right up close, whilst I was doing for her the only thing my hands know how to do for people in pain. I would rub away on her tissues from the outside, hoping that I was erasing some of those cells deep within. She would tell my baby all sorts of things, and I now realise I was squirrelling those stories up, like quotes in one of those “Words of Wisdom” books, saving them for the Winter of my empty.

When someone you love dies, that is all you have. Photos, stories and perhaps some things that they used to wear. Nothing new gets added as the years mount up, so you have to save up those fragments and slips of ideas that you shared, and store them deep inside, for it is all you will ever have. Nothing new will be added, not ever. So those fragile wisps must be wrapped lightly in the most delicate of tissue papers, and stored in a box with plenty of air around them, so they can breathe and retain their shape and stay precious and safe.

When my friend used to talk to my ripening abdomen, I was often struck by the thought that we were both growing things within us. She talked to mine, she told it to be good and healthy and strong and creative and funny and to pop out at home in a rush of bursting life. I talked silently to her’s and told it to fuck right off and leave her alone and have our business done and done and over and done.

Mine listened. Her’s did not.

So now I count off the years gone, in the milestones of my daughter. Every December as Christmas draws near, I wait for the punch in the guts and I struggle and claw myself past that day on the calendar fearful that if I go down, it will kick and kick me, as I cower on the floor. I hold myself rigid as I think of the people who have more right than me to grieve, the people who share those very same cell lines that took her down. And I think of the love of her life, and the hole that he has somehow filled with wonderful things, old and new.

I don’t even know what to say to them any more.

My friend had breast cancer, and she didn’t let it stop her one bit. Until it stopped her for good.

She was not one of the lucky ones.

None of them are.

RIP Rick. Miss you. Still.

…From The Ashers